Absent Friends
by lycanus1
Summary: A grief-stricken knight reminisces ...


**Summary:** A grief-stricken Bors reminisces ...  
**Warnings:** character deaths; slashy themes.  
**Comments & Reviews:** positive comments welcomed  
**Disclaimer:** The KA lads _still _belong to Jerry Bruckheimer & Touchstone Pictures - godsdamnit !

_**XXXXXXXXX**_

**Absent Friends**

A single, forlorn looking figured weaved an unsteady path out of the garrison's main gate and headed slowly for the small hill which overlooked it.

Although a strict curfew was maintained by the Romans over the settlement's inhabitants, not a single man was prepared to prevent the Roxolani from leaving. After that first attempt a few months ago - which had been a resounding failure - the sentries had learnt at their own cost not to stop the burly Sarmatian. Not after the man's overwhelming grief, boundless rage and aggression had put six of them in the infirmary for a week. His reputation as a deadly, bloodthirsty fighter preceeded him, and he was feared and respected because of it. They dared not stop him ...

Bors finally reached his destination and sank down wearily onto the ground, clutching a large clay pitcher of ale for dear life. It had become a habit of his by now - no, not a habit, a ritual ... For the past four months he'd zealously visited the exact spot every evening. Always at the same time, no matter what the weather and always with his pitcher of ale.

At first, it was understandable, and his family and friends had sympathized greatly. But now ? Now, they were worried for him and feared for both his health and sanity. Both Gawain and Arthur had tried to make him see sense, and even his beloved Vanora had finally given up reasoning with him, having decided that Bors would need time to come to terms with what had happened. All she could do was be there for him and seeing the brave, strong man - who she adored with all of her being - _still_ stricken by grief after all this time, was damn near breaking her heart. Bors had become the shadow of the loud, gregarious, fun-loving soul he'd once been.

Bors settled down between the two, large mounds of earth on the hillside and sighed heavily. He knew deep down that he should stop coming here. That Vanora, the love of his life, worried deeply about him. But he could not - he was unable to - his heart and soul wouldn't allow him to stop ... It would seem like a betrayal - one of the utmost kind ...

He could not and would not do that to him. He could _never_ betray him. Not Dagonet, his beloved young cousin - the last of his kinsmen - who now lay still and lifeless beneath the cold, wet earth. Dagonet, who's life had been cruelly and unnecessarily torn away from him on that needless battle on the frozen lake. Barely in his prime, he'd been stolen away from them, just because he'd selflessly and willingly sacrificed himself so that all of the remaining knights could live.

Dagonet had forfeited his own life. To give Arthur time to become the great leader he was destined to be; so that Gawain and Galahad could be together; to enable Lancelot to obtain his liberty and return home to Sarmatia; so that Bors and Vanora could safely raise their brood. But most importantly, and this had been the crux of it all ... Dagonet had surrendered his own chance of freedom and happiness so that his lover - the person he'd adored more than life itself - would survive and be able to fight another day ...

Silent tears ran down the big knight's haggard face. His countenance, which had once been jovial, full of mirth and determination, was now gaunt with melancholy and despair. Bors raised the pitcher to his lips with a trembling hand and drank deeply. In the past, he found that drink helped him forget, but now, when it came to Dagonet's tragic loss - the one thing he'd _wanted_ to forget - it only brought back bitter-sweet memories.

Recollections of their childhood together, before the Romans had come and ruined everything. Of days without care. Of laughter and above all, endless freedom. He recalled once they'd been conscripted, how they'd always been there for each other and watched each other's back. Both would have willingly and happily sacrificed his life for the other and tragically, Dagonet had done just that.

With a heavy sigh, Bors drank some more. Although he'd often teased his cousin mercilessly, he'd adored the shy, quiet man and missed him desperately. Dagonet had been the one he'd _always_ turned to in times of stress or when he was in need of companionship, and now his rock was gone - forever ... He remembered with sad affection how the young Healer had finally - yet not without help from Gawain and himself - found love. Love with the most unlikely candidate. With their deadly, enigmatic, handsome Scout.

And Tristan surprizingly, had reciprocated that love tenfold. The tempestuous Aorsi had fallen deeply and purely for Dagonet. For the brief time they'd had together, Bors had never seen two people so happy and so passionately in love. Because of how the usually secretive, and guarded Scout had openly and clearly adored his cousin, Bors too, had come to love the man as a brother. Dagonet's untimely demise had devastated the Aorsi. With each day that had passed since the young Roxolani's death, a part of Tristan withered and died, until he too, finally lost the will to live ...

Bors knew he'd never forget the shock and overwhelming sorrow he'd felt when both he and Gawain, along with Galahad, had stumbled across the corpse of the one member of their brethren they had truly believed to be invincible. Lying bloody and broken on the battlefield of Badon Hill. Still mourning his kinsman, seeing Tristan's rapidly cooling body had been a savage blow to the older knight and he knew he'd lost his only link with Dagonet forever. With hindsight, he realized that when the Aorsi had released his beloved hawk for the final time before the conflict, the young warrior had no intention of surviving the battle. He'd chosen death because he no longer had reason to live.

Bors savagely wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. Every visit to the Sarmatian knights graveyard on the hill, left him full of melancholy. But this one had hit Bors harder than the previous ones. It was all the more poignant because today would have been Dagonet's thirty third birthday ...

He reached across to carefully push aside the beautiful wooden box that rested on the large mound of earth, and with an unsteady hand began to pour a large quantity of the ale onto the soil.

" Happy birthday, Dag ... " he softly slurred, " told you I'd be here ... Promised you ... that I wouldn't forget ... " He drank another mouthful. The ale trickled past his lips and down his chin and with exaggerated care he placed the vessel down and reached into his pocket before turning to the dao marked grave at his other side. In his large, calloused hand he held a large, juicy red apple. He carefully dug a hole into the soil and gently placed the fruit in it, then covered it up once more.

" Take care of my little cousin, Scout ... " Bors said with gruff affection in a tear-roughened voice, " I'm counting on you, y'know, until I see you both again ... I miss the pair of you, my brothers, more than you'll ever know ... "

With that final remark, Bors lurched to his feet, picked up the half-empty pitcher and began to meander his way back home. Home, where he knew Vanora - his beautiful, kind-hearted Vanora - would be waiting patiently and anxiously for his return.

**FINIS**


End file.
